The Khan Series 5-Book Bundle

by Conn Iggulden

  Her husband’s supporters and friends. Oghul could not feel anything on that day, as if she had grown a protective sheath over her heart. She had lost too much in too short a time and she still reeled from all that had happened. She could not bear to look at her old servant Bayarmaa, trussed with a dozen others as they waited in sullen silence for Mongke to order their deaths.

  The orlok seemed in no hurry. He was a solid figure at the center of them, almost half as wide again as the largest warrior in his retinue. Despite his bulk, he moved easily, a man secure in his strength and still young enough to enjoy it. Oghul stood and dreamed of him being struck dead in front of them all, but it was just a fantasy. Mongke was oblivious to the misery in the huddled rank of prisoners. Even as she watched, he accepted a cup of airag from a servant, laughing with his friends. Somehow, that burned worse than anything, that he should care so little for their fate even as they stood on their last day. Oghul saw one of the bound men had lost control of his bladder, so that a thin stream of urine darkened his leggings and pooled at his feet. He did not seem to notice, his eyes already blank. She looked away, trying to find her own courage. All that man had to fear was a knife. For her, it would be slow.

  It was no blessing that Mongke had agreed the wife of a khan was one of royal blood. She looked at the dark canal Ogedai had built and shivered again. She could feel the urge to empty her own bladder, though she had been careful not to drink that morning. Her face and hands felt cold as the blood was leached away and her heartbeat increased. Even so, she was sweating and the cloth at her armpits was already wet. She focused on the small changes in her body as she waited, trying desperately to distract herself.

  Mongke finished his airag and tossed the cup back to the servant. He nodded to one of his officers and the man bellowed a command to come to order. All the men there straightened, even some of the prisoners, standing as tall as they could in their bonds. Oghul shook her head at the poor fools. Did they expect to impress their tormentors and gain mercy? There was none to be had.

  Yao Shu was present and Oghul thought she could see the signs of great strain on the old man. She had heard the chancellor had been absent for the first executions, claiming illness. With a delicate feel for cruelty, Mongke had sensed his discomfort. Now Yao Shu played a part in all the deaths. Oghul listened to the list of names, watching sadly as each prisoner lifted his head slightly as he heard his own.

  After the endless wait, the procedure suddenly started to go quickly. The prisoners were kicked to their knees and a very young warrior stepped from Mongke’s group, drawing a long sword. Oghul knew he would have earned the duty as a reward for some service to Mongke. Many of the warriors desired the task if they had not yet been blooded in battle. Oghul recalled that Genghis had killed tens of thousands in one foreign city for no other purpose than to train his men in the reality of killing.

  She did not listen to Yao Shu’s shaking voice as he called out the charges, reading from the page in front of him. The executioner braced himself over the first kneeling figure, determined to make a good show in front of Mongke.

  Oghul looked over the river as the killing began, ignoring the shouts of approval and laughter from among Mongke’s group. Bayarmaa was fourth in line and Oghul had to force herself to look as the old woman’s turn came. Her crime had only been by association with Oghul Khaimish, named as the one who corrupted the khan’s wife to dark magic.

  Bayarmaa had not bowed her head or stretched her neck and the swordsman spoke harshly to her. She ignored him, looking over to where Oghul stood. They shared a glance and Bayarmaa smiled before she was killed in two hacking blows.

  Oghul looked back again to the dark waters until it was over. When the last of them was dead, she turned to see the young warrior examining his blade with a stricken expression. No doubt it had chipped on bone. Mongke came forward and clapped him on the back, pressing a fresh cup of airag into his hands while Oghul watched in sullen hatred. When Mongke looked over at her, she felt her heart constrict in panic and her numb hands twisted in the rope.

  Yao Shu spoke her name. This time there was definitely a quaver in his voice and even Mongke frowned at him. Genghis had decreed that royal blood would never be shed by his people, but the alternative filled Oghul with terror.

  “Oghul Khaimish, who has brought infamy to the name of the khan with witchcraft and foul practices, even unto … the killing of her own child.”

  Oghul’s hands curled into fists at the last, reaching into the coldness within to keep her on her feet.

  When Yao Shu had finished reading the charges, he asked if anyone would step forward and speak in her defense. The smell of blood was strong on the air and no one moved. Mongke nodded to the warriors standing with her.

  Oghul stood shaking as she was lifted off her feet and laid on a thick mat of felt. She sensed muscles twitching in her legs, beyond her control. Her body wanted to run and could not. Yao Shu suddenly began to chant a prayer for her, his voice breaking. Mongke glared at him, but the old man spoke on.

  The warriors rolled her over in the felt, so that the musty material pressed against her face and filled her lungs with dust. Panic swelled in her and she cried out, her gasping breath muffled in the cloth. She felt the tugging movement as they bound the roll of felt in reins of leather, yanking the buckles tight. She would not cry for help with Mongke listening, but she could not hold back a moan of fear, dragged from her like an animal in a trap. The stillness seemed to go on for ever. She could hear her heart thud in her chest and ears, a drum pulsing. Suddenly she was moving, turning over slowly as they rolled her toward the canal.

  Freezing water flooded in and she struggled wildly then, seeing silver bubbles erupt all around her. The roll of felt sank quickly. She held her breath as long as she could.

  SORHATANI LAY WITH JUST A SHEET OVER HER, THOUGH THE night was cold. Kublai knelt at her side and when he took her hand he almost recoiled at the heat from it. The fever had burned its path through Karakorum and there were fewer new cases reported each day. Every summer it was the same. A few dozen or a few hundred would succumb to some pestilence. Very often it was those who had survived the last one, still weak and thin.

  Kublai felt tears prick his eyes as his mother coughed, the sound building until she was choking, her back arched and her muscles standing out in narrow lines. He waited until she could draw a shuddering breath. She looked embarrassed that he had seen her so racked and she smiled weakly at him, her eyes glassy with fever.

  “Go on,” she said.

  “Yao Shu has locked himself in his rooms. I’ve never seen him so distraught. It was not a good death.”

  “No such thing,” Sorhatani said, wheezing. “It is never kind, Kublai. All we can do is ignore it until the time comes.” The effort of speaking was enormous and he tried to stop her, but she waved his objections aside. “People do that so well, Kublai. They live knowing they will die, but no matter how many times they say the words, they don’t truly believe it. They think somehow that they will be the one death passes by, that they will live and live and never grow old.” She coughed again and Kublai winced at the sound, waiting patiently until she could breathe once more.

  “Even now, I expect to … live, Kublai. I am a foolish old woman.”

  “Not foolish, or old,” he said softly. “And I need you still. What would I do without you to talk to?” He saw her smile again, but her skin wrinkled like old cloth.

  “I don’t plan … on joining your father tonight. I’d like to tell Mongke what I think of his death lists.”

  Kublai’s expression grew sour.

  “From what I’ve heard, he has impressed the princes and generals. They are the sort of men who admire butchery. They are saying he is a new Genghis, mother.”

  “Perhaps … he is,” she said, choking. Kublai passed a cup of apple juice into her hands and she sipped it with her eyes closed.

  “He could have banished Oghul Khaimish and her old servant,” Kublai said. He h
ad studied the life of his grandfather Genghis and he suspected his mother was right, but that did not remove the bitter taste. His brother had achieved a reputation for ruthlessness with fewer than a hundred deaths. It had certainly not hurt him with the nation. They looked to him as one who would bring a new era of conquest and expansion. For all his misgivings and personal dislike, Kublai felt they were probably right.

  “He will be khan, Kublai. You must not question what he does. He is no Guyuk—remember that. Mongke is strong.”

  “And stupid,” he muttered.

  His mother laughed and the coughing fit that followed was the worst he had seen. It went on and on and when she dabbed at her mouth with the sheet, he saw a spot of blood on the cloth. He could not drag his eyes away from it.

  When the coughing fit passed, she shook her head, her voice barely a whisper.

  “He is no fool, Kublai. He understands far better than you realize. The khan’s vast armies cannot return to being herdsmen, not anymore. He is riding the tiger now, my son. He dare not climb down.”

  Kublai frowned, irritated that his mother seemed to be supporting Mongke in everything. He had wanted to share his anger with her, not have her excuse his brother’s acts. Before he spoke again, understanding came to him. Sorhatani had been his friend as well as his mother, but she would never see clearly with her sons. It was a blind spot in her. With sadness, he knew all he could achieve would be to hurt her. He closed his mouth on all the arguments he might have made and remained silent.

  “I will think on it,” he said. “Now get well, mother. You will want to be there, to see Mongke made khan.”

  She nodded weakly at his words and he dried the sweat from her face before he left her.

  GUYUK’S BODY WAS BURNED IN A FUNERAL PYRE OUTSIDE Karakorum and the days of mourning came to a climax. Even in the cool basements of the palace, the body had begun to rot and the pyre was thick with the smell of perfumed oils. Mongke watched as the edifice collapsed on itself in a gust of flame. Half the nation was drunk, of course, needing little excuse as they held a vigil to see the khan’s spirit into the next world. In their thousands they came drunkenly to the great fire, spattering drops of airag from their fingers or blowing them from their mouths. More than one ventured too close and fell back with shrieks as their clothing caught and had to be thumped out. In the darkness, moths and biting insects crackled in the flames, drawn from the city and the gers by the light. They died in their millions, black specks that wove trails over the pyre and fell into the flames. Mongke thought of the young women, servants, and warriors who had been buried with Genghis. He smiled at the thought that Guyuk had only flies to attend him in death.

  When the great pyre was reduced to a glowing heap, still higher than a man, Mongke sent for his brothers. Kublai, Hulegu, and Arik-Boke fell into step beside him at his order and the small group walked back through the quiet city, leaving the nation to continue their revels. Children would be born as a result of the night. Men and women would be killed in drunken brawls, but that was the way of things: Life and death intertwined forever. It was fitting.

  The city seemed empty as they walked together. Almost unconsciously, Mongke and Kublai led the group, opposites in physique and outlook. At their backs, Hulegu had the same broad forehead and heavy frame as Mongke, while Arik-Boke was the shortest, with eyes that flickered from man to man as he walked. An old scar disfigured the youngest brother, a thick line across Arik-Boke’s face that varied in color from dark pink to the yellow of callus. An accident years before had left him with no bridge to his nose, so he could be heard breathing through his mouth as they walked. Any stranger would have known they were brothers, but there was more tension than friendship in that small group. They kept their silence, waiting to see what Mongke planned for them.

  Kublai felt the strain more than the others. Only he had refused to give up his Chin style, from the cut of his hair to the fine silk weave of his robes. It was a small rebellion, but as yet, Mongke had chosen not to force the issue.

  There were Night Guards at the palace, holding their own silent vigil as they stood to attention under the light of lamps. At Mongke’s approach, they held themselves like statues. Mongke did not seem to notice, so deep was he in thought. He swept across the outer yard and Arik-Boke had to trot to keep up with the others as they passed through the cloisters and on to the main audience room.

  More of the khan’s Guards waited there, by doors of polished copper. No sign of green appeared on the shining sheets and there was a smell of floor wax and polish strong in the air. Mongke may not yet have been khan, but his orders were law in the city and he worked them all hard.

  Kublai watched in hidden irritation as Mongke entered and crossed the chamber, pulling off the cloth from a jug of wine and pouring himself a cup that he knocked back in quick swallows. There was nowhere to sit. The room was almost bare, except for a long table covered with carelessly strewn scrolls and maps, some of them bound in bright-colored thread. The glittering throne of Guyuk and Ogedai had disappeared, no doubt to languish in some storeroom for the next century.

  “Drink if you wish,” Mongke said.

  Hulegu and Arik-Boke moved to the table with him, leaving only Kublai standing alone and waiting to be told why they were there.

  The answer was not long in coming.

  “I will be khan in the spring,” Mongke said. He spoke without triumph, stating it as a simple fact. “I am orlok of the army and a grandson of Genghis. Baidur won’t challenge me and Batu has written to say I have his support.”

  He paused as Kublai shifted slightly on his feet. The two most senior princes of the nation had been given vast lands in Ogedai’s will. They would not challenge his brother. For all Mongke’s plodding reasoning, he had risen above them all. He took his position for granted, but in truth he was the only man the tumans would accept.

  “So you will be khan, brother,” Kublai said, accepting Mongke’s assessment. “Our father would be proud to see one of his sons rise so far.”

  Mongke stared at him, searching for mockery. He found none and grunted, satisfied at his own dominance.

  “Even so, I will not leave you behind,” Mongke told his brothers. Kublai noted how he addressed himself to Hulegu and Arik-Boke, but he nodded anyway as Mongke went on. “You will rise with me, as our father would have wanted. Tonight we will discuss the future of our family.”

  Kublai doubted there would be much discussion. Mongke was confident in his new authority, dispensing wisdom as a father to his children, rather than as a brother. He clapped Hulegu on the shoulder and Kublai thought how alike they were. Though Mongke was slightly wider in the shoulder, Hulegu had the same cold eyes.

  “I will not wait for spring to begin the campaigns,” Mongke said. “The world has waited too long for a weak khan to perish. Our enemies have grown strong without a hand on their throats, a knife at the neck of those they love. It is time to remind them who their masters are.”

  Hulegu made some noise of appreciation as he drained another cup of the red wine and smacked his lips. Mongke looked on him with satisfaction, seeing the same qualities that Kublai did.

  “Hulegu, I have written orders for you to take command of Baidur’s army of the west, with three more tumans from Karakorum. I have made you orlok of a hundred thousand and given you three of my best men, Baiju, Ilugei, and Kitbuqa.”

  To Kublai’s embarrassment, Hulegu actually knelt and bowed his head.

  “Thank you, brother,” he said, rising again. “It is a great honor.”

  “You will raze the ground south and west, using Samarkand as your base city. Baidur will not oppose my orders. Complete the work our grandfather began, Hulegu. Go further than he ever did. It is my aim that you will carve a new khanate for yourself, filled with riches.”

  Mongke handed Hulegu a scroll and watched as his brother unrolled a map of the region, copied with great care and marked with the curved lines and dots of some long-dead Persian hand. Kublai stared
at it in fascination, drawing closer despite himself. The library in Karakorum had many wonders he had not yet seen.

  Hulegu spread the map on the table, holding it with wine cups at the edges. His eyes gleamed as he stared across the lands represented there. Mongke patted him on the back as he leaned in, pointing with his free hand.

  “The greatest city is there, brother, on the banks of the Tigris River. Genghis himself never reached so far. It is the center of the faith they call Islam. You will take it for me and make it the heart of your new khanate.”

  “It will be done, brother,” Hulegu said, overwhelmed.

  Mongke saw his pleasure and smiled, refilling a cup to hand to him.

  “The line of Tolui has come to rule,” he said, glancing at Kublai. “We will not let it pass from us, not now. The path begun by Genghis will be cut further by our family. It must be fate, brothers. Our father gave his life for a khan, our mother held the city and the homeland together when it could all have been destroyed.” His eyes shone with a vision of the future. “Everything that has gone before was to prepare our line for this moment, here. Four brothers in a room, with the world a sweet virgin waiting for us.”

  Kublai watched silently as Hulegu and Arik-Boke grinned, swept up in Mongke’s grand words. He could not be comfortable standing apart from them, and on impulse he filled the spare cup with wine and drank it. His younger brothers moved aside for him to reach the jug, though Mongke frowned slightly. As Kublai sipped, he saw with a sinking feeling how Arik-Boke was practically quivering to be told his destiny, his scar a dark pink, almost red.

  Mongke chose that moment to grip the arm of their youngest brother.

  “Arik, I have spoken to our mother and she has agreed this with me.”

  Kublai looked up sharply at that. He did not think Sorhatani had been well enough to discuss anything.